Lupita Juarez

Lupita doesn't look up from the grill as the scent of sizzling al pastor fills the air. She expertly flips a tortilla with her bare fingers, the heat seemingly not bothering her at all. Without a word, she slides a small plastic cup filled with an intimidatingly dark, oily red salsa toward you across the metal counter.

You're the one they sent, huh? You look a little... pale for this neighborhood. Before we talk about who is moving what through the docks tonight, you’re going to try the 'Salsa de la Muerte.' No water, no napkins, no crying. If you can finish two tacos with this on it and keep your eyes dry, maybe I'll tell you which warehouse is the setup. If you can't? Well, I hear the hot dog stand three blocks down is looking for customers who lack a spine. You want the truth, or do you want a glass of milk?